


"Initially, it was just a game."

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking the plot of BBC!Sherlock and twisting it up a little bit, because Richard Brook really is just an actor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Initially, it was just a game."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/gifts).



His mobile didn’t ring, or even vibrate -- it lit up. It was a rule in the Met’s lab that absolutely all non-standard (i.e., non-forensic) devices be kept on silent -- no exceptions. And generally, he was happy to comply. One forgotten phone in the labcoat pocket of a too-popular intern -- an intern who stupidly felt that “Barbie Girl” made an ideal ringtone -- was all it took for the permanent employees to unanimously agree to the ban.   
  
And even though the light from his microscope was obscenely bright, he caught a glimpse of the flashing display out of the corner of his eye.   
  
The LED was red.   
  
Stripping off latex gloves, Anderson scooped up the phone and tried very hard not to roll his eyes. The worst messages always came without fail when he was in the middle of something time-sensitive. He tapped the screen with his thumb, and pursed his lips.    
  
TXT [Blocked Number]  **Bring him in.**   
TXT [Blocked Number]  **The car is waiting.**   
  
The irony, of course, being that the messages themselves were equally time-sensitive, and rather like the results of his experiment, he’d be butchered if he missed the mark. He was surprisingly keen on living for a man who dealt with so much murder.  
  
“Sarah?” Shitty taste aside, the interns had their uses. “Could you come finish this up for me? I’ve got to take this.” He waved the phone in evidence as he took a step back towards the lab door.   
  
An awkward, bookish-looking young woman stared at him. “What is it?”   
  
He’d have rubbed his face in exasperation if his hands didn’t reek with the smell of latex. There was no winning with those gloves; they always left a powdery, disgusting feeling that no amount of scrubbing could erase. He closed his fingers around his phone and pointed to the gas electrophoresis apparatus. “Just pull the gel, copy the results, and wipe down the machine when it’s done. It’ll beep twice in about... an hour. Don’t try to analyse them or anything yourself -- just drop them in my file. Understood?”   
  
Sarah nodded quickly, but seemed apprehensive.  
  
“Is there a problem?”  
  
The intern shook her head. “No, I can manage. I just- …an hour from now?”   
  
Anderson stared at her.  
  
“Right, yes. One hour. Got it.”   
  
He knew as he walked out that he’d have to repeat the whole test the next day. Another set of gels to prepare, and a six hour delay that Lestrade would be a smidge livid about. But in the long run -- he shucked his lab coat and tucked it into his locker -- those six hours and a bit of the DI’s rage were negligible. He grabbed his coat, shut the door, and stepped over the bench bolted in the middle of the floor.   
  
The lockers were meant to be organised alphabetically -- but unsurprisingly, the Met police didn’t have a particularly impressive retention rate. Some of the spaces were communal, some out of order -- “D. Anderson” came before “W. Alden” -- and some were completely empty.  
  
Or rather -- he opened an unmarked locker and tugged out a shifty-looking black duffel bag -- they should have been.  
  
He didn’t have to check the contents; he pulled the strap over his shoulder and legged it to the street. If someone had found that particular parcel, it wouldn’t still be there, and everyone -- forensics staff, detectives, and PCs alike -- would’ve received a dozen e-mails from their superiors about protocol and gun safety.   
  
He laughed. As if he didn’t know how to use a gun.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, a dark-haired man with a thin face and round eyes noticed a sleek, black sedan following him down the street. His mouth went dry, and for a brief minute, he honestly considered making a run for it. Back over the sidewalks, of course, into the crowd -- somewhere a car couldn’t go, with lots of witnesses.  
  
He should have known better.  
  
He took a step away from the street, and found himself face to face with a man he’d met before -- a man he was quite keen on never seeing again. Funny how life always brought back the people you liked the least.   
  
Anderson nodded at the car now parked beside them. “Get in, Mr. Brook.”   
  
Richard Brook -- a not so successful, but incredibly well-paid actor -- swallowed hard and looked up. He tried to smile, but it came off as more of a nervous tic. His hands shook as he held them up, palms outward in a gesture of peace. He struggled not to stutter. “Now, look... Look, Seb-- i-it is Sebastian, right? I don’t want any trouble, .”   
  
It was Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, alias Daniel Anderson -- forensics scientist employed with the Met Police at Scotland Yard for the last seven years, and rather a ruthless mercenary, if truth be told. But no one at the Yard knew about that.   
  
Sebastian glared, and Richard’s voice rose an octave.  
  
“Please, I don’t--. Just tell him I’m not interested any more! He can keep the money. I don’t want it. I’m not interested. Please, I--” He was interrupted by the muffled sound of a gun being cocked under Sebastian’s coat.  
  
“Get in the car, Mr. Brook.”   
  
Richard crawled into the backseat.   
  
TXT [Sebastian Moran]  **Got him.**   
TXT [Blocked Number]  **Put him in the locker.**   
  
Sebastian snorted. Now he was just being deliberately cheeky.   
  
Obviously his mysterious boss hadn’t meant the storage back at Scotland Yard -- although it would have been an interesting puzzle, trying to fit Brook’s entire body inside the small cubicles. He supposed a wood chipper would do the trick, but they were hard to come by in central London.  
  
He’d meant a secure holding facility about forty minutes outside of the city -- a good place to store something important, until it was needed again. In this case, the something important was the actor, and he was going inside a  little, concrete cell until it was time for his final performance.   
  
Moran marched him down a corridor, one hand on Richard’s shoulder, and the other on his favourite SIG Sauer. There was a Beretta that he liked more, but she stayed at home in his closet -- just in case. The facility’s staff didn’t blink -- didn’t bat an eye --  even as Richard begged and pleaded with him, throwing out offers and favours that he didn’t have, that Sebastian had no interest in. He’d long since lost the desire to work for anyone but his current employer, and he certainly wasn’t going to jump ship for a bad actor who read children’s stories on the telly.   
  
He stopped at an open door. “Your new lodgings, Mr. Brook,” he said as he pushed the whimpering man inside. “Try not to scream too much. It’s bad for you.”   
  
Richard flew at the door as Moran shut it in his face -- it was nice not to be on the receiving end of that exchange for once. And as he’d predicted, the man locked inside shrieked and slammed his fists against the metal plates that separated them.   
  
Moran clicked his tongue. “They never listen.”   
  
Inside the cell, an actor who’d gotten in over his head slid to his knees and curled up against the door. The room was completely bare, except for one name, scratched into the concrete more than a dozen times.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
Sebastian found his employer in a cosy den on the opposite side of the compound. “Nice touch with the writing,” he said, slipping the SIG Sauer into his shoulder holster. He’d have preferred to have it strapped to his thigh, but that was almost impossible to conceal, and a certain someone seemed to think he looked dashing in braces. “Trying to drive him insane?”   
  
Mycroft Holmes looked up from a crystal glass and a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper. “Eventually,” he answered. “Though, I doubt my brother’s name will have quite the desired effect.”   
  
“Works pretty well on you, doesn’t it?” Sebastian asked, leaning over the back of Mycroft’s chair.  
  
Mycroft pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t get to play this role. However--,” he folded the paper up smoothly, “Major Barrymore said that Frankland’s project with the gas worked rather splendidly. My charming little brother was generous enough to test it for us at Baskerville -- unknowingly, of course.”   
  
Sebastian smiled.   
  
“And rather good timing, too,” he added slowly. “After that ludicrous fiasco with the plane, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s lost sight of the game I’ve set up for him.” Mycroft idly swirled the liquid in his glass as Sebastian’s hands slid under his jacket. “I think he likes being the hero in our faerie tales. Flying off to Iran to rescue his damsel in distress -- I did warn him about caring.”  
  
“And what do you care about?” Sebastian asked, murmuring as his mouth brushed against the curve of Mycroft’s ear.   
  
Mycroft stared into the cup.   
  
“Keeping him entertained,” he answered after a moment. “Heaven forbid he should ever put that precocious talent towards stopping me.”


End file.
